


By Impulse

by Queen_of_Stars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_of_Stars/pseuds/Queen_of_Stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in the aftermath of the War, picking up the pieces was much easier said than done. The impulse to rewrite history triumphed over what remained of her restraint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter I**

**The Beginnings of an End & The Morning After**

 

~*~*~*~*~

“In every end, there is also a beginning.” ~ Libba Bray

~*~*~*~*~

 **  
Disclaimer:** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong to JK Rowling, Scholastic, and/or WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

 

~*~*~*~*~

Frustration.

It was something that she had felt almost accustomed to in the past few years, and looking into this room never failed to bring that particular annoyance to the forefront of her mind once more. The dim light that seeped in through the thick curtains painted the room in shades of grey, and the dark elegance was almost lost in the dust that coated the furniture in the absence of its former inhabitant. It had been a little over five years since Sirius had fallen through the Veil, yet his room still stood as a musty testament to his memory. She had told Harry to take the time to clean it, take the memories worth keeping, and Vanish the rest. As always, he had managed to refuse and avoid that section of Grimmauld Place altogether. Their last conversation about it had taken place that afternoon, and it hadn't exactly ended on a high note.

"Why do you keep insisting that I clean that r—"

"The same reason why you can't bring yourself to," Hermione interrupted, struggling with the urge to physically knock some sense into him.

"And why do you think that is, Hermione?" Harry asked cynically. "You always have an answer, so enlighten me. Sheer laziness, d'you reckon?" he continued, his face contorting into a snarl.

Hermione blanched before finally replying, "You can't bring yourself to move on. We both know I don't usually see eye to eye with Ron or the Weasleys, but everyone except you can see that your way of holding on is unhealthy."

Harry's eyes glinted sadly. "You were there through all of it, Hermione. Is there any healthy way to hold on? How can I not hold on? Winning the War should have been the end of it. Kingsley Shacklebolt may have been the best option for Minister of Magic, but his appointment actually made me feel guilty for even thinking about refusing to be the Ministry's poster boy. It's been almost five years, and what's changed? People are still leading their miserable lives, hoping for change and using 'the Boy Who Lived' as a figurehead for their problems."

"People will rebuild, Harry. You've given them the chance—"

"A chance that people haven't taken, won't take, Hermione. So stop nagging." Without a backward glance, he walked away toward his room, slamming the door behind him.

In a practiced motion, Hermione gestured at Madame Black's portrait and cast a Silencing Charm before the portrait's subject had the opportunity to start screaming obscenities.

~*~*~*~*~

It had been three years since Voldemort's demise, nearly three years since the world began to rebuild. It was slow going for the Wizarding populace. Escaped Death Eaters who enjoyed the chaos of decimating war had continued to plague the Wizarding world, most evading capture while they did so.

Yet, it had been an end of sorts that had come to pass, allowing her and many others a beginning. N.E.W.T.s had been administered to many after rudimentary rebuilding of the Hogwarts Castle had been completed. She had worried at first, but years of endless revision had ensured that she came through with admirable results.

However, some things had changed with time. The "Golden Trio," as they had been named by the various Wizarding periodicals, weren't as close as they once were. The strain of press conferences, interviews, and fame had made their baser qualities more pronounced. Time had exacerbated their differences.

Harry, the Chosen One, had jumped into a relationship with Ginevra Weasley, craving the Weasleys as a family to call his own. Their engagement, while expected, had been dominated by Ginny's desire for the spotlight. Hermione had expected the relationship to end sooner rather than later, but she hadn't expected it to end as it had.

Ron was content with the spotlight thrust upon him as well. As the youngest brother, his problem was how to handle the attention; at least Ginny had been used to it within the family. Even if the Chudley Cannons weren't the best team, the offer they had made for him was considerable. Ron jumped on the chance, so while the Cannons hadn't exactly won any substantial talent, they did gain publicity.

While Hermione studied for her N.E.W.T.s, refusing to do anything less, Harry had been content to receive honorary results for defeating the Dark Lord. Ron, willing to take the easy way out, had opted to do the same. Although Harry hadn't ridiculed Hermione for her choice, Ron failed to understand why she would put herself through the trouble. After all, if they were going to be together, she would need to make Ron more of a priority. With her job at the Ministry, that wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

Years of arguing and tension had been just that; there was no spark to their passion, no all-consuming flame that she had once fantasized about. The few months she had spent with Ron had made her feel caged, restricted from being able to do what she had planned and worked for. No matter how many times she had told him that she wanted to do well, that she wanted a career, and that she hadn't worked so hard for so long just to pop out a bunch of kids and stay at home taking care of them, he never understood.

The end of that relationship had been anything but quiet, and Hermione found herself at odds with many of the Weasleys in one go.

The loss of companionship had made her regret her actions regarding her parents. Almost two years ago, she had gathered the courage to find her parents in Australia. Unfortunately, as she had been informed by Severus Snape's portrait, there would be no way to restore their memories to what they once were, especially given the so-called "ham-handed" manner of the charm she had used. However, even the blunt remarks Snape had levelled at her did not prevent her from trying to make contact and at least see that her parents were all right. The one meeting turned into many, and even though Hermione realized that she could never make them remember her as a daughter, she did manage to become a cordial acquaintance with the both of them. For better or worse, she couldn't bring herself to stay away.

The Department of Mysteries had been one of the few Ministry Departments to stay whole through Voldemort's reign, so when they had extended an offer to her, it had been difficult to refuse. Taking the offered position was a good way to avoid the guilt pooling inside of her.

Her work at the Department of Mysteries had become a place of solace, a niche to crawl into to escape the dreary world around her. Initially, she had been disappointed that she would not be able to design her own experiments or participate in any until she had worked under one of the more seasoned Unspeakables, but the research that came along with it all was fascinating. Books that had never seen the air outside of the Ministry in decades were hers to examine, and the various Pureblood families who had stained their names and reputations with the legacy of Voldemort had been detained in Azkaban, leaving their Manors and libraries as property confiscated by the Ministry until trials had gone underway.

Unfortunately for some of the more optimistic figures of law enforcement that were eager to show that they were in fact on the side of Kingsley Shacklebolt's term of reconstruction, they were overenthusiastic in their handling of cataloguing confiscated items. Many of them had forgotten to take along a team of Cursebreakers, and those that hadn't ended up blasted to smithereens the moment they stepped on the property were rushed to St. Mungo's for a variety of life threatening injuries.

The Department of Mysteries had a different tactic. As her supervisor, a tall, balding man who she had once thought of as a grandfatherly Unspeakable, had put it to her, you could do a lot more with diplomacy and words than you ever could with brute force. When she had brought up the fact that Death Eaters were unlikely to cooperate and respond to diplomacy, that grandfatherly image had dissipated and a determined, darkened glint of his eyes accompanied a rather grizzled smirk.

"Diplomacy does involve some negotiation on private matters, Miss Granger. Every family has its secrets, and the possibility of exposure may very well be more effective than an extensive stay in Azkaban."

Perhaps there were multiple reasons as to why the Department of Mysteries had withstood the test of multiple reigns of terror. At any rate, she no longer thought of the man as grandfatherly.

~*~*~*~*~

Looking through yet another ancient tome, Hermione absentmindedly pulled at a ringlet of hair, letting it bounce back as she continued to read the text. Dabbling in Time and the magic to manipulate it had long been classified as restricted and/or Dark magic, so any hints there were to reconstructing the process were weaved through illicit and sometimes ancient texts without any semblance of cohesion. Every now and then, she would pull out a Muggle pen to jot down a point of interest, but she really had no choice but to be content to simply read in the vast, luxurious setting of Malfoy Manor's library.

She had initially chafed at the thought of working in the ancestral home of the Malfoys, and having been imprisoned and tortured within its walls hadn't helped her sense of unease. However, months of research and the knowledge that the Manor's wards had been drastically altered to accept her by her blood and magical signature had made her slightly more accepting of her surroundings. Though she would continue to avoid the Drawing Room and other sections of the Manor like the plague.

"Have you found anything of interest yet, Hermione?" a baritone voice drawled.

Slow steps echoed along with soft thuds of a cane along the floor. Hermione looked up to find Lucius Malfoy heading toward her, his ancestral cane and new wand in hand.

While she did not doubt his presence was due to a combination of the wealth of resources he had at his disposal and whatever other conditions her supervisors had lorded over him, Hermione found herself at ease with the elder Malfoy. His previous allegiances and haughty composure aside, Lucius Malfoy had been one of the few people she found had formidable intelligence.

 _Galleons, bribes, and promises of brute force and violence could have only taken him so far, I suppose_ , had been the first thought to run through Hermione's mind when she found his questions and subsequent suggestions useful.  _A considerable reserve of acumen would have been needed to keep **his**  arse out of Azkaban._

Narcissa's disappearance had been shrouded in a cloak of privacy, and the elder Malfoy's admittance of his late wife's choices of leaving him and relocating to one of her estates in Sweden had been the only thing to visibly break his composure. Regret and anger had etched themselves into the look he had given her when he had relented and answered her incessant questions about the former Lady Malfoy.

Draco had clearly chosen to support his mother in the separation, but he had grown up as Lucius Malfoy's heir, so he had little choice but to follow in his father's footsteps. It was obvious that Lucius was making an active effort to be a more supportive father, and it was clear that his care was unrivalled by that of anyone except Narcissa. However, anyone who had spent a good amount of time with the man could see that he had little patience for theatrics and whinging, and from what she could tell, Draco was almost worse than Ron.

"Nothing of significance," she replied, setting aside the tome after marking her place. Her time spent with senior Unspeakables and the Purebloods they had managed to compromise with had altered part of her outlook and some of her mannerisms. Being a babbling, know-it-all swot had been her role to play through her years at Hogwarts, but an increasing amount of cynicism coupled with the constant threats to have it all blasted out of her were enough to help tone that aspect of her personality down. Hermione watched in silence as Lucius went over to the crystal table behind the desk and unstopped a decanter to pour himself a glass of the amber liquid within it.

"Drink?" he asked, indicating the set of decanters.

"Cognac, if you will." Hermione sighed, closing her eyes.

"I daresay someone has had a long day," Lucius remarked while pouring another glass. Bringing it over to her, he continued, "You usually decline anything more potent than a glass of wine."

"I don't doubt tomorrow will be longer, Lucius." Hermione no longer felt odd addressing him with such familiarity, but waking up next to him after many nights of research and the habit of seeking his thoughts out on a fairly regular basis had introduced a different sort of tension that wasn't entirely adversarial. And after their torrid scene at the Ministry's remembrance gala last week, the rumor mill had been churning like no other. After all, it wasn't every day a Malfoy publicly came to the rescue of a member of the Golden Trio. Though the last time had been considerably more significant and at least worth the ink.

While she occupied herself with breathing in the scent of and tasting what was no doubt very old cognac, he quirked an eyebrow, glancing at the relatively small stack of tomes in front of her, leaning back in the chair across from her

Acknowledging the nonverbal cue, she answered, "Research is the least of my worries. I'm expected to attend the funeral of Ginny Weasley. I don't know what possessed Mrs. Weasley to invite me, but I can't leave Harry to it. Not alone. And despite last week's gala, the Golden Trio is expected to come together again."

"Such sentimentality," Lucius murmured while swishing the contents of his glass around pensively. "Or perhaps it is simply loyalty. In any case, the sentiment seems to be in high demand in this world," he muttered as an afterthought.

Hermione suppressed a snort. "I hadn't realized it was an overrated sentiment until after I joined the Ministry." Taking another slow sip out of the glass in her hand, she was silent for a moment before softly continuing, "I think I should regret the loss of those ideals, but I'm no longer sure I can bring myself to do so."

Lucius chuckled, raising her ire. Before she could say anything, however, he commented wryly, "Such is the way of life, my dear; those who survive are left to their cynicism, and the ideals of youth slowly fade away." The haunted look in his eyes was much more intense than what the mirror had reflected back at her of late.

Despite the jaded gaze and conversation, Hermione couldn't help but feel the warmth that spread through her at his proximity. Now if only she could convince herself that the warmth she felt was just a result of the alcohol.

~*~*~*~*~

When she woke up the next morning, it was an absolutely beautiful day. The sky had appeared as a vast, exquisite expanse of sunlit blue. It had been the first day of its kind for a couple of weeks. London, while fairly charming on these days, was often a somewhat dull place when it rained; the atmosphere was one that tended to induce the desires of refusing to get out of bed and staying underneath the covers. It was a feeling that had pervaded her senses every time she had the opportunity to reflect on what life had become. On the whole, however, Hermione Granger woke up feeling that today was going to be a good day.

She yawned and slowly got up, looking around her room at Grimmauld Place. The musty curtains let small rays of sunshine in through the cracks between the heavy material and wall surrounding the window. Pushing open the curtains, Hermione let the sunlight stream in. For a moment, she stood there, basking in the warmth of the light.

A sudden knock on her door interrupted the moment of tranquillity.

"Hermione? Are you awake?" Harry asked on the other side of the door.

She sighed softly and answered, "Yes, Harry. You can come in if you like."

The door creaked open, letting in Harry and the rest of the gloom that emanated through pervaded the house. After stepping in, he took a look at her and softly asked, "It's ironic, isn't it?" When Hermione failed to respond, he continued. "It was beautiful the day she went missing. The morning George found her body was clear. If her funeral wasn't in a few hours—"

"It's better than standing in the graveyard while it rains, Harry," Hermione interrupted. She had seen him moping much too long to stand for it on a day where nearly everyone else would be doing nothing but. Wincing at the sharp tone her voice had taken, she attempted to soften the statement. "Ginny always did hate the rainy days," she mused softly.

It had been over a month since Ginny had stormed out of Grimmauld Place to "clear her head." It was hardly any secret that she wanted desperately to be in the spotlight, to be photographed as part of high society, but Harry's ambitions had conflicted violently with hers. The loving first phase of their relationship had been long gone, but that hadn't kept Harry from trying to make it work. Two weeks later, she had been found mangled in a ditch with the Dark Mark cast over her.

Harry gave her a small, wavering smile before a look of depression morphed onto his face once more. "The last time we spoke before she disappeared was to argue," Harry said, his last words fading into a soft, choked whisper.

This time, Hermione let the curtains fall and walked over to him. Putting her arms around him, she told him, "You can't have known that then." As Harry slowly broke down in her arms, she rubbed his back in small circles and tried to be comforting.

Hermione sighed and tried to muster up some sadness at Ginny's gruesome death, but pity and sympathy for Harry were what she felt most strongly. Hermione's attempts to be friends with Ginny had stopped long before Ginny's relationship with Harry had started. She had never had very many friends before Hogwarts, and the snide comments that had started the rift between her and the fiery witch had initially been ignored on her part. Close friends were a scarcity, and the unravelling and loss of friendships treasured as memories throughout the war were just another series of blemishes that had marred their lives.

~*~*~*~*~

The burial had gone off and finished without any of the outbursts Hermione had feared. Perhaps it was a good thing that Ron and Molly were so subdued. It would definitely make offering her condolences a much simpler task.

Perhaps she could even be sincere.

At any rate, the only time she had spoken to Ron thus far was to greet him when she had Apparated in on Harry's arm. He hadn't seemed surprised that they would come in together, but it might have been because he had finally accepted that her feelings toward both of them were those that an older sibling would have for reckless younger brothers. The lack of anger made it much easier to swallow the pride that had stood in her way of apologizing.

For the meanwhile, however, she had no problem losing herself in her thoughts and gazing through one of the windows of the small chapel in the outskirts of Devon. Her composed reflection was superimposed upon the glass, a combination of the reflection from within the chapel and the cheery atmosphere outside it.

It was no longer a reflection Hermione could truly identify as the one she grew up with.

Rubbing shoulders with the upper echelons of the Ministry and society had forced her to learn the cosmetic charms that she had never bothered with during Hogwarts. She had grown into most of her mother's features, and had learned to make the time to apply those charms to enhance the best of those features and tame her bushy mane into a much more manageable cascade of thick waves. While she was by no means stunning enough to grace the glossy covers of Witch Weekly, she turned enough heads.

Unfortunately, the wary, haunted look in her eyes transformed her more completely than anything else had. If the War had been the worst of it, she might have passed for a naive young woman, but taking the steps to move on despite the prolonged terror had stripped her of the optimism that most would expect her to have.

"I'd have expected you to look a bit more cheerful, Hermione. I can't say I didn't know that there was no love lost between you and Ginny."

Hermione tore her gaze away from the window to see Ron approach her. "There is a little something called tact, Ron. I'm not so foregone into hatred as to have lost all of mine," she replied. Giving him a wry twist of her lips, she continued, "Although it is nice to know that you noticed." Clenching her teeth and taking a breath, she decided that now was as good a time as any to make the first apology. "I'm sorry for having things," she gestured vaguely between them, "end the way that they did."

"I suppose I shouldn't have run to Mum afterward. Or at all really. I'm sorry we couldn't work it out too," Ron acquiesced. After an awkward moment of silence, he stuck out his hands and asked, "Friends?"

Hermione nearly laughed out loud and threw her arms around him. "Friends," she said softly, smiling.

~*~*~*~*~

Harry, vaguely preoccupied with his conversation with Fleur, hadn't noticed his two best friends on speaking terms once more until Bill tapped him on the shoulder.

"I think it's high time that you and Hermione come back to the Burrow every now and then, Harry," Bill suggested, gesturing over at the other side of the chapel where Hermione and Ron were now talking somewhat animatedly.

" _Oui_ , and our cottage as well!" Fleur chirped and lightly pushed Harry toward Ron and Hermione.

As Harry walked toward the window, Hermione noticed him and dragged Ron to meet him halfway. Harry smiled at the familiar sight and felt a fresh pang of pain when he realized that Ginny used to do that as well.

When neither Harry nor Ron said anything after a moment of staring at each other, Hermione quirked an eyebrow at the both of them and sighed. "I'll let you two grieve in peace."

Hermione walked out to the point where she and Harry had Apparated in an hour or so earlier and disappeared with a small pop.

A moment later, Hermione appeared at the Apparition room of Malfoy Manor with a swirl of her cloak. As she made her way down the corridors, her midnight blue cloak billowed slightly behind her with each step. When she stepped into the library, she stopped short at seeing Lucius at his desk.

"Back so soon?" Lucius asked, raising his eyes from the stacks of parchment in front of him to meet hers.

"I've been to enough funerals these past few years to last several lifetimes, and two of the people who genuinely care to have me at  _this_  one still grieve for the dead." She tossed off her cloak into the reading chair she had become accustomed to using.

"One would think you would be used to emotional outbursts; I can't see why you wouldn't be when you spend as much time as you do with Harry Potter and the Weasleys," Lucius mused as he returned to signing paperwork. He missed the half-hearted glare Hermione levelled in his direction as he continued, "There are no doubt more intelligent colleagues among those in your department, colleagues who are apt to have some grasp on the concept of decorum."

"I would thank you to not express your opinion of who I prefer to be around in my spare time, Lucius," Hermione said through gritted teeth.

Lucius quirked an eyebrow slightly, but that was all the indication he gave as to whether or not he heard her as he continued looking through one of the stacks of parchment that littered his desk. Malfoy Enterprises was still a formidable corporation, and despite the large fallout in Wizarding England, there were apparently many divisions flourishing on the other side of the pond.

"It's all more Galleons to help pay reparation sums for this administration," was the way Lucius broached the subject. "They can hardly expect me to run a multinational corporation from the cell of a prison, now, can they?"

Hermione hummed absentmindedly in response and went to seek out the tomes she had marked to finish researching by the end of the week. Her deadline was coming up, and while she might be able to extend her time with what she had, her superiors at the Department were getting rather impatient.

 _They should have salvaged the Time Turners when they had the chance_ , thought Hermione.  _It would have been much easier if they had perfected the spellwork before they destroyed what was left of them._

She brought the tomes back to her chair and table, sat down, and continued where she had left off the other day. The constraints of traditional time travel had been extensively paradoxical, and there wasn't much she had been able to make out of the philosophical and magical texts that blathered on about the complexities of it all. Alternate universes parallel to the one they lived in were the only explanation she had been able to flesh out, but the problem with the Time Turners she was responsible for recreating was that they had dealt with dimensions that had knowledge of the past, and with minute jumps, that knowledge hadn't been wiped out of existence.

"Lucius, how would you go about attempting to manipulate alternate universes?" asked Hermione. After a moment of silence, she looked up at the lack of response and frowned when she realized that Lucius seemed to have left his desk some time ago. "Where in Merlin's name is the arse when he might actually be useful?" Hermione looked upward, searching for patience, and tried to ignore the frustration that was building up. "Cici!" she eventually called out.

It took a while for the house-elf that Lucius had assigned to her to pop up in the library. Hermione had no doubt that it was her own fault for starting S.P.E.W., and while she still held the belief that elves should be treated with some equality, it had become awfully difficult to try and free elves that had begun to avoid her like a particularly nasty disease.

"Missy Granger is callings for CiCi?" The house-elf seemed on the verge of cringing when Hermione asked for Lucius to be summoned to the library.

"But Master is demandings that us elves don't bother him—"

"Take me to him."

Cici's eyes seemed even larger than most house-elves' as her expression changed to one that could be construed as an odd combination of surprise and horror. "Buts..." she started, only to cower at the look Hermione directed at her, trailing off into silence as she did so.

~*~*~*~*~

In retrospect, she realised that there was no doubt a genuine reason for the house-elf's reluctance. Cici and all the house-elves of Malfoy Manor were well aware of the fact that Lucius Malfoy was to be at Hermione's beck and call when he wasn't pandering to various other bureaucrats who had a part in allowing him to retain a majority of his assets. Perhaps it may have been concern for their Master's dignity, but Hermione had never stopped to take that into consideration when she had barged into his rooms with the single-mindedness that had drove her through successful bouts of research.

In any case, she hadn't expected to find him with nothing but a towel around his waist.

The theories that she had been attempting to string together slowly fell apart as she ignored them in favor of perusing Lucius Malfoy's rather fit body. It was almost unfair that he looked as good as he did, but at the moment, she could hardly complain when presented with the view. After having considered no one other than Ron for so long, it felt different looking at someone else with anything other than a passive glance.

"What exactly necessitated your presence here  _right_  after my bath?" There had been a slight note of frustration imbued within the question. The look on Lucius' face when he realized that she had been standing in his doorway while he had been drying his hair was a mix of surprise and exasperation.

"I needed an opinion besides my own," Hermione answered after a moment. She felt proud at the lack of a tremble in her voice as she continued, "Time might simply be another dimension, but what would you say links it to alternate universes? And how would one go about one manipulating them?"

Lucius pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and took a slow breath, pondering whether or not to even try answering the question as he was. "My dear," Lucius started off in a rather strangled voice, "provided you can give me some context, I would be more than happy to share my thoughts on those topics with you when we're both clothed. Dinner should be ready shortly anyway."

~*~*~*~*~

It had been over a year since his wife had left him. Narcissa Malfoy neé Black had been his wife for over twenty years, and although it had been nothing but a contract for both their fathers at the time, he had slowly learned that he had become used to the companionship. If it wasn't for her, he would have never had the opportunity to hold his beautiful baby boy, his Draco, in his arms; he wouldn't have been able to watch the boy grow up.

He knew he wasn't what one would call a family man. Narcissa had never cared for much besides maintaining her image as one of the social elite. Both he and Narcissa had had their fair share of lovers, but when it came to Draco, both of them had tried their best to give him the best of everything. Narcissa had chosen to coddle the boy; he had attempted to preen him into a Malfoy worthy of the multigenerational inheritance that he would eventually receive.

His support of the Dark Lord had originally been expected; his father was one of the first Death Eaters as well as a touted member of the Knights of Walpurgis. Blood purity and the supremacy of magic were ideals that he had grown up with, but Voldemort's second reign and the subsequent lack of dignity he had suffered had gone a long way toward changing him. In the face of utter humiliation and the loss of the prestige he had been accustomed to, he had slowly grown to despise Voldemort. The turning point for him had been the near loss of his son and wife. When a family of one of the purest of bloodlines had been treated like nothing more than servants, pawns to be thrown to the wolves, Lucius had no choice but to see that the ambitions of his youth had led him into this predicament, into serving the deranged man who had called himself Lord Voldemort. Unfortunately, he had been powerless to stop the Dark Lord from torturing him, his wife, and Draco for their failures.

This administration, with Kingsley Shacklebolt as Minister and the Order of the Phoenix at the helm, had been much more gracious than their predecessors, yet their stance on Death Eaters had been harsh. If it wasn't for Narcissa's timely lie, Draco's feigned uncertainty, and his inability to truly serve either side by that point, Lucius had no doubt that they would have all found themselves locked in Azkaban for the rest of their lives.

These past few years had been a bit more eye opening. He had regretted that any earnings of the London based companies of Malfoy Enterprises had to be given up to the Ministry, but he knew it could have been much, much worse. Ironically enough, he had been dealt a better hand with this administration than he had ever had with his service to the Dark Lord. The part he found most surprising was the fact that he had slowly grown to like Hermione Granger's near constant presence at the Manor.

She had been every bit as intelligent as his son had claimed and more. He could almost understand why the Department of Mysteries had assigned her to recreate and expand the time traveling paraphernalia that had been destroyed during the War. He had worked with Unspeakables and their apprentices before; they were a lot who believed in independence with experience, and they had given quite a bit to the young woman. Perhaps it was because his only female companionship consisted of her, but he had grown fairly comfortable with her. Of course, she was hardly his usual type; he preferred willowy, lithe blondes, but Hermione had a certain allure to her, one that continued to draw him in despite his better judgement.

After making sure that the rest of his hair had been dried properly, Lucius donned a comfortable pair of trousers and robes before making his way toward the family dining room. It was a fairly small setting, almost intimate, and it had been the room that he and Hermione had dined in for the past month or so, after they had started bringing and discussing research over their meals.

~*~*~*~*~

Passion in the theoretical sense had a way of manifesting itself physically. Or it might have been the loneliness both of them had begun to tire of.

Dinner had been a very heated affair, and it had allowed Hermione successful insights into the mind-numbing details that had consumed her to the point of obsession these past few months. While she couldn't put her finger on the exact combination of existing spellwork she would need to alter the series of runes on the links of each chain or empower the particulates into the so-called "sands of time", the bottles of wine they had both managed to consume over the past few hours had managed to fill her with a heady sense of triumph while ridding them both of the inhibitions they prided themselves on.

"This would be much easier if you had fewer clothes on, Lucius," Hermione gasped as she struggled with one of the buttons on his waistcoat.

Arching a pale eyebrow at her, he released the nipple he was suckling with an audible pop. Before Hermione could protest, he stepped back, and with a gesture of his hand, Lucius divested himself of his clothes and stood completely naked in front of her, his erection jutting out proudly.

"Better?" Lucius asked with a slight smirk.

"Mhm," Hermione vocalized before stepping forward and kissing him passionately. She slid her hands up his torso and shoulders to wrap her arms around him, bringing him even closer. Without breaking the kiss, Lucius hoisted her up into his arms and moved them towards the monstrous bed in his suite. Hermione wrapped her arms around him as he cupped her arse and pulled her closer toward him to where she could feel his cock and his coarse pubic hair against her centre.

Within moments, he had deposited her in the centre of the large bed, towering over her small frame briefly before he continued his previous ministrations. Suckling one breast and then the other, he made his way down her body until she felt him at the apex of her thighs. Hermione gasped as he caressed her wet folds and slipped a finger inside of her. Lucius added another finger and began to pump them in and out of her. Hermione whimpered as she got closer and closer to her release, and with a cry, her muscles clenched around his fingers as she came.

After a moment, she gazed up at him in a slight haze, her breath catching in her throat as she saw Lucius taste her essence on his fingers. When she moaned at the loss of contact, he smirked and moved to where his face was looming above hers.

"You taste divine," he whispered into her ear and then pressed his lips against hers roughly, letting her taste herself.

They lay there like that for what seemed like eternity; Hermione had sunk into the multitude of pillows that were arranged on the bed, and Lucius dominated the kiss while positioning himself right above her centre. He broke the kiss suddenly, but before she could protest, he grabbed her legs and entered her roughly.

"Lucius!" Hermione shrieked as he held himself still within her, shifting only his hands to gain more leverage into her body.

Lucius let out a harsh breath and his features contorted slightly as he held them still. Having adjusted to his girth, Hermione wriggled a bit, rolling her hips to seek the friction Lucius was denying them both.

With that, Lucius withdrew himself out of her before slamming into her again. Hermione arched her body upward to take more of him as he continued to thrust into her, unrelenting in his pace. With each stroke, she moaned a little as he alternated between filling her completely and withdrawing just enough for him to hit the spot that made her see stars. When the pace of Lucius' thrusts became more and more erratic, she felt his hand move from its place on her hip to just above her clit. Upon feeling his thumb brush against her clit, she felt herself tighten for another orgasm.

"Come for me, Hermione," Lucius rumbled as he began to rub against her clit in rhythm with his thrusts.

Her orgasm washed over her body, and she clenched around his throbbing member as she came. With a few more hard slaps of his flesh against hers, Hermione felt Lucius stiffen above her, and she heard him moan as his seed spilled into her.

After a couple of minutes, Lucius withdrew as he began to soften and collapsed almost gracefully beside her.

~*~*~*~*~

When Hermione blearily opened her eyes a few hours later, it was to the early morning sunlight streaming through the open windows and an empty bed. Thankfully, there was a measured dose of potion on the bedside table along with a small piece of parchment with Lucius' elegant script.

_I have an early Floo-call and some errands I must attend to. In the meanwhile, this should help ease any consequences of last night's indulgences. ~ LM_

Hermione downed it and felt the remnants of her wine and sex induced hangover melt away.

Now if only the thoughts that replaced the achy vertigo would do the same.

_The funeral I attended yesterday could have happened years ago because of the man I just slept with._

Now that was a sobering thought that rivalled the potion she had just imbibed. One to make her question why it just took her just over a bottle of wine with dinner to lose any and all inhibitions that had prevented her from acting on any the tension that had been hovering over her interactions with the elder Malfoy this past month.

Lucius Malfoy was a man who was impeccably postured to intimidate, and even years after falling from grace to be held a prisoner within his Manor and being subject to the whims of a madman, he epitomized the image of Pureblood tradition.

She recalled the fascination and abject terror of her first impression of Lucius in the bookstore where he had slipped Ginny that diary without compunction. There was cruelty and hatred as well as disdain imbued within the glint of his grey eyes, and combined with his haughty presence and aura, the sneer he had etched upon his face was so much more threatening than any expression his son had ever managed to pull off. She had seen the man utter Unforgivable curses in boredom and sport, and even if he had refrained from causing damage in the Final Battle, there was no doubt in her mind that he had once been a part of Voldemort's inner circle for more than just the monetary resources he could provide.

Frankly, even though Harry had testified as to the Malfoys' relative innocence in the actions of the War, and despite catching a glimpse of the desperate man that he had been during Voldemort's final months, Hermione hadn't believed Lucius Malfoy to be capable of anything resembling humanity.

That had begun to change as she worked with him. It had taken her months of substantial conversation with the man to see the love he had for his son, his loneliness, and his dismay at his wife's treatment of their marriage contract. It had taken them months to progress beyond remnants of prejudice to constructive debate on some of the most arcane theories on Magic. Now, even when she put her mind to it, she had trouble reconciling the Lucius Malfoy the world had warned her about with the man she had come to know.

And on that discordant thought, she slipped out of the sheets of Lucius Malfoy's bed, Summoned her clothes, and made her way to Grimmauld Place.

Hermione relegated her thoughts of Lucius Malfoy to some other place for the time being. She had other things to worry about. Like tomorrow's deadline.

~*~*~*~*~

When she had finished giving her presentation to her supervisor, Unspeakable Julian Rowle, she had expected more than the wary look directed her way.

After a minute or two of silent staring, she began to feel a slight throbbing behind her left eye.  _Words would be nice._  While she couldn't stand failure, the wretched silence was somehow worse in the moment.

"You have my commendation for clearly putting some effort into the solution you just outlined, Miss Granger."

Hermione inclined her head in acknowledgement of the words, but she couldn't help heaving a small sigh at the tone in which they were spoken.

"You have your doubts that it will work as intended…" Hermione interjected with some disappointment.

Rowle ran his fingers across the long chain of her prototype, taking note of each of the Runes etched onto the series of links.

"In essence. Your attempt to structure the problem, so to speak, has changed the nature of the problem itself. Your understanding of how Time works is very modular in nature, Miss Granger." Rowle looked at his protégé speculatively.

"The Runes you have chosen," he continued slowly, "may very well add a host of contingencies that may improve upon some elements of the original design of the device, but the core failsafe — the limit on how far back the Turner's magic will enable a user to go — seems to be non-existent. The idea is to keep the damage to the original timeline localized. Your spellwork on the particulates themselves is off, somehow. Based on what I can determine from a cursory examination, you have not quite balanced the necessary elements."

Hermione frowned and started, "Sir, the version you have in your hands tested successfully in the Time Room. Out of the functioning prototypes, Professor Croaker suggested this was the one that felt to him the most similar to the originals his predecessor had forged."

Rowle almost chuckled. "I'm almost surprised you sought him out for another opinion on the prototypes." Tracing his fingers over her prototype once more, his ghost of a smile had disappeared. "Again, Miss Granger, you have my commendation on the effort you've put in. At this point, it may be more prudent to let Saul or myself finish your project. There is very little either of us could do as supervisors without micromanaging you."

Internally, Hermione was fuming. She had spent months researching and annotating countless texts and theories on time, and after countless hours in the Time room, she had essentially put a Time Turner in both Croaker and Rowle's hands, and all they would do was have Croaker take over the rest of the project. After a full two years at the Department, the least they could do was allow her to finish a project. One project! This was the closest she had come to a tangible deliverable without having it nicked by a more senior Unspeakable, and the sense that she was almost there was what was setting her on edge.

"With all due respect, sir, I believe I can alter the Runes and spellwork to incorporate a failsafe by the end of the day. It may not be the exact Time Turner that you were used to dealing with before they were destroyed, but it will be a device that meets the specifications I scoped out for  _my_  project at the beginning of the year."

When Rowle did not say immediately say anything in response, Hermione faltered away from the possessive tone she had taken. After all, she was chatting with the man who had essentially blackmailed half of Britain's Purebloods on the Ministry's behalf. Before she could actually backtrack, however, Rowle broke in.

"Very well, Miss Granger. You have until the end of the day to incorporate an effective failsafe. In the event that you cannot provide me with an improved prototype by then, I will go ahead and reassign this project to Saul."

~*~*~*~*~

And so Hermione found herself testing prototype upon prototype in the Time room, each row in the room containing different permutations of altered Runes and spellwork. With each hour, she added another short row of prototypes to test on cycle. She was getting closer to incorporating the failsafe into the Runes than she was the spellwork; none of the materials on the devices could maintain their structural integrity with the amount of power she was trying to infuse into them. If she wasn't careful with that last row of over-spelled prototypes, disaster would be inevitable.

Even if popping out to get Goblin-wrought metals was a cost-effective option, Rowle's last words to her this morning had ensured that it was not a time-effective option.

Thankfully, the other Unspeakables had seen fit to allow her the Time room for most of the day. She hadn't been disturbed at least, which had allowed her to focus exclusively on the multiple prototypes that she had set on different testing cycles.

Of course, it was only as she hurried over to the last of the most volatile of her devices that anyone did disturb her.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione nearly swore out loud as she almost dropped the current prototype she had been tinkering with. Unfortunately, she didn't quite catch it before it knocked into a couple of the other devices. The moment the variations of particulates collided in a mess of spelled glass, her world flashed brightly.

And then everything went black.

~*~*~*~*~

**Author's Note:**

Hello, hello! If you're seeing this, that means you made it through this first chapter. ;)

Hugs and drinks for my lovely beta, Colette Nin, for helping me put this together!

And since both of us are new to the writing/beta'ing thing, any reviews would be greatly appreciated! They make us feel better, you see. And they feed the muse like no other. Also, since this is functioning as a preview/test of sorts, constructive criticism would be absolutely wonderful. So pretty please and thank you for taking the time to read and review!

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Hermione wakes up to find herself in a time that most definitely is not her own.

**Chapter II**  
Consequences  
  


~*~*~*~*~  
“If you build the guts do something, anything, you better save enough to face the consequences.” ~Criss Jami  
~*~*~*~*~

 **Disclaimer:** The characters and canon situations in the following story belong to JK Rowling, Scholastic, and/or WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story.

~*~*~*~*~

“She was found in the Time Room, sir.”

Hermione slowly felt herself come to, but the voices she was hearing seemed distant, almost muffled. The sterile scent that she associated with disinfecting charms and poultices was almost overwhelming. She couldn’t move any of her limbs, but upon slowly opening her eyes, she realized that it was most likely because she had been magically bound to her bed in St. Mungo’s.

“I thought you lot had other security measures in place.”

“We do! The wards cottoned on to her signature eventually.”

There was a snort of amusement. “I’d imagine that was less the wards ‘cottoning on’ to her signature and moreso the bloody explosion. It looked like she nearly killed Unspeakable Croaker the last I checked.” This voice was more clear and almost jovial, but there was a note of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Is Saul all right?” she rasped out in response.

The other occupants of the room promptly shifted their attention to her after the question, but no one thought to dignify it with an answer.

Instead, one of the men asked, “So you know Croaker, eh?”

As the man who had just spoken walked into her line of vision, she felt her next words catch in her throat with an odd gurgling sound that would have been better suited to someone who was being choked to death.

After blinking a couple of times to make sure that she wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming altogether, she uttered “Moody” before following it up with a string of muttered profanity.

The men opposite her looked slightly taken aback. She wasn’t sure if it was the muttering or the vehemence with which she did so that accounted for the wary looks they were giving her, but regardless of the reason, her current state was completely warranted. Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody was standing in front of her with both legs, more nose than she could ever remember him having, sans mad eye, and very much alive to boot.

“Bugger it all to hell,” was the last thing to cross her lips before unconsciousness claimed her once more.

~*~*~*~*~

Physically, the second time waking up was much easier.

With Moody standing nearby with his wand trained on her prone form, Hermione wished she could say the same thing about managing the whirl of thoughts that flooded her mind.

She had travelled back in time. And not in the minute intervals that her prototypes were built for. And since she hadn’t been retrieved back to her time yet, there was a good chance that the Rowle and Croaker of _her_ time were unable to perform the task. It would be up to her to recreate the accident that had brought her here in a manner that would propel her forward in time.

She’d have better luck going back to the ‘40s and throwing a young Tom Riddle off a cliff.

 _Merlin knows if even that would be a successful endeavour. I’d probably get stuck a few years after it would be feasible to do so. Bloody fucking shite_.

_Unless…_

“Moody?”

The Auror looked about as taken aback as he had the first time she had started speaking, but simply taking his change of expression as acknowledgement, Hermione continued, “Are Saul Croaker or Julian Rowle available to speak to me?” There was a good chance Rowle would be nowhere to be found in Britain if Moody was still alive, but it couldn’t hurt to ask at this point.

The grizzled Auror looked like he was struggling with his own string of remarks, questions no doubt, but eventually, he fished into one of the pockets of his robes and pulled out a neatly rolled scroll of parchment.

Before he could hand it to her, she asked with some incredulity, “How exactly am I supposed to be able to read that while magically bound?”

With a slightly troubled look on his face, Moody responded gruffly, “The Unspeakables altered your bindings. Rookwood suggested that you should be able to figure out how to get out of some of them if you are who they think you are.”

Hermione felt her lip curl slightly into a sneer at the mention of Rookwood’s name, but she shook off the sense of disgust she felt and allowed herself to close her eyes and feel for the magic that bound her to the uncomfortable bed.

The spellwork, while slightly different from what she was used to with Rowle’s warding, was familiar enough. Apparently the magic Unspeakables used to contain their own hadn’t changed much from this time to hers. There were some charms that all Unspeakables had been trained to cast and dismantle wandlessly, and luckily for her, this was one of them.

_Or perhaps it’s less my being lucky and more that they expected someone to royally fuck something up sooner or later._

Within a few moments, she was able to sit up and reach for the scroll that Moody handed to her, but she was slightly dismayed to find that there were still spells on the bottom half of her body that bound her to the bed. For better or worse, she realized that was probably on purpose. An Unspeakable’s vows upon entry into the Department of Mysteries were not Unbreakable, and Rookwood was once again living proof that there were indeed traitors who could ascend within the Department.

The parchment Moody handed her was similarly charmed, but as far as she could tell, the entirety of Saul’s message had revealed itself to her.

 

_Madam,_

_Frankly, I have no idea who you are. However, it has been at least three days since you appeared in the Time Room, knocking me out for a day in the process, I might add._

_I have established that the question is not exactly where you came from, but when; the particulates that litter the Time Room are slightly different from those in any Time device that currently exists. For all of our sakes, burn this message and don’t irreparably damage this timeline before you can be retrieved._

_In the event that you are not retrieved, I unfortunately have no way of knowing which device to duplicate, and it is unlikely that any person in the employ of the Department of Mysteries would be able to restore the remnants of the broken glass to a complete, functioning device. Depending on whether or not you could recreate such a device, you may find yourself permanently stuck in this timeline. My recommendation is that you reach out to one of my colleagues; Augustus Rookwood is supposedly trained for this sort of thing._

_Again, my hope is that you do not irreparably damage the timeline, but it is likely you may have already done so._

_Regards,_

_Professor Saul Croaker_  
Department of Mysteries, British Ministry of Magic  
24 July 1977

She read the missive once more, the last line imprinting itself onto her memory, before sighing in resignation and casting an _Incendio_ on the parchment.

 _Bloody fucking hell_ , she thought, the ashes of Saul’s message sitting in her palm.

She had been warned of this possibility when she had initially taken on her project. She just hadn’t thought that she would both succeed yet fail so miserably that she might be stuck in a time years before her own.

If Rowle hadn’t threatened to take the project away from her, or if she hadn’t been so damn possessive, arrogant, and careless, she would not be here.

_Hindsight was a bitch._

_Part of the problem, as Croaker had so quickly caught on to, was that no one could reconstruct the device that I used from the remnants of it. After all, it was a combination of three or four broken devices that brought me here. Even if I could recreate all of the components that went into my prototypes, the different permutations of how they could be combined—_

“You don’t seem much happier now that you’ve set fire to that note from Croaker.” The Auror’s eyes and wand were still trained on her.

“No shite.” She’d have continued her internal musings if Moody hadn’t chosen that moment to interrupt the flow of her thoughts.

“Got a mouth on you, don’t you, lass.” This was as close to amused as she’d ever heard Moody.

“Profanity is reserved for situations where other words don’t drive home the point,” Hermione started by default. It was part of a common argument that she had had with Ron before they had ultimately broken up, but this time, she was on the other end of it. “This is one of those situations.”

When the Auror did not respond, she sighed. It could take her years to come close to where she had been just a few days ago without the help of her notes and access to the Ministry. If any of the texts that she had read held an ounce of truth, she had already altered this timeline of this universe beyond true reparation if she hadn’t already been retrieved.

Relying on a crooked Unspeakable, however, was not an option.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could pull Professor Dumbledore from whatever he happens to be twinkling his eyes at?” Hermione requested with no small amount of resignation.

For the first time since she’d seen Alastor Moody in this time, he slowly lowered his wand. His wary look at her did not disappear, but it was not quite as intense as it had been when he had handed over the scroll.

“What exactly would you be wanting with the Headmaster?” There was still plenty of suspicion to line his voice, even if his wand was now only loosely aimed at her body.

She fought the reflex to curl her lip and sneer; apparently time travel didn’t diminish the impact prolonged interactions with Lucius Malfoy had imparted on her. “He might find what I have to offer in your War fairly useful, should he choose to use it.”

“And what exactly would that be?”

“An ally.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Professor Burke, then, is it?”

It had been almost a week since she had been given a brief audience with Albus Dumbledore, and it had been almost two days since he had owled her, informing her that he had secured her an identity in this time as well as the reputable position of Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.

Apparently Alastor Moody had been informed of her new identity as well when he was told that Professor McGonagall would be collecting her from St. Mungo’s.

For whatever reason, Albus Dumbledore had seen fit to find an alias for her that suggested a purer pedigree than the one she actually possessed. Nathan Burke, her supposed father, had passed away after he had gone away to Switzerland. His mother, Cassiopeia Burke née Ross, was the older sister of Isobel McGonagall née Ross, making Nathan one of Minerva McGonagall’s cousins. If she had to hazard a guess, suggesting that she was related to the Deputy Headmistress was the Headmaster’s way of ensuring that she could be watched as closely as he could manage.

“Hermione is perfectly fine, Auror Moody.”

“Alastor,” the man almost grunted in response. After a moment, he said somewhat offhandedly, “Most of us reckon your position’s cursed, lass.”

“So I gather,” was her response. She hadn’t ever gotten the complete story from Harry when he’d discussed it with Dumbledore, but from what she could gather, the position had been cursed by Voldemort years ago.

_I suppose it serves me right for using Ariana as a conversation starter and musing on his feelings about Grindelwald._

While none of those things had actually been the first to come out of her mouth, her knowledge of his role in his sister’s demise and the reasons for his initial reluctance to kill Grindelwald had ultimately been the only thing that she could think of to keep his attention and suggest that he had trusted her in her original dimension’s timeline. At which point he had idly offered to secure her a position in this timeline.

Frankly, she should have known better; Albus Dumbledore never did anything idly.

~*~*~*~*~

“Hermione?”

Hermione turned around sharply at the familiar voice. “Professor McGonagall!” she exclaimed, once her eyes settled on the much younger version of her favourite professor.

The woman looked slightly startled for a flash of a moment before the calmer composure Hermione was used to seeing on the Scottish witch made an appearance once more.

“It’s simply Minerva, please,” the woman responded crisply. “If Albus has his way, you’d be calling me Aunt Minerva. Or Cousin. Frankly, I’m not sure which I’d prefer come the new school term, especially since it seems as if you may be our newest Professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

Before Hermione could interject anything into the conversation, McGonagall ploughed on.

“You are to meet with the Board of Governors this afternoon. Of course, they may not entirely approve of your appointment, but with less than a month until the beginning of term, I’m not entirely sure it matters,” she finished wryly.

“At least it gets me out of St. Mungo’s,” Hermione attempted to respond brightly.

“I suppose you can be thankful for being discharged from this miserable place. However, I’m afraid your first impression of Hogwarts castle may not be much better, Miss Burke. The school is usually quite wonderful over the summer hols, but the Governors…” McGonagall broke off to harrumph. Well, you’ll see soon enough.”

~*~*~*~*~

Thankfully, however, her “Aunt” Minerva had crisply enunciated “MacDougal Cottage” first. As Hermione followed suit, she found herself stepping into a quaint little cottage with an achingly familiar view of Hogsmeade. For all practical purposes, Hermione knew that she could have easily had them Floo directly into her study at the school to meet the Board of Governors.

“Albus suggested I set aside this cottage for you to reside in over the holidays since I’ve taken to staying at Hogwarts of late.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said as gratefully as she could. While it was a far cry from her flat and likely monitored by Dumbledore, the cottage was still likely to be far better than anything else she could afford on her stipend.

“I wouldn’t thank me just yet,” Minerva responded tersely. “Albus also suggested that I accompany you to tonight’s dinner at the Potter estate since he has probably neglected to mention it to you.”

“I look forward to it.” Hermione wasn’t sure if she managed to prevent a grimace from crossing her face as she forced the words out. More than a few hours of notice would have been greatly appreciated, considering that the Headmaster knew that most of the people she would be meeting tonight were dead in her time.

_At least I needn’t worry about trying to cook dinner tonight._

“Your presence is likely to be the most sought after for the night, so I don’t envy you that. However, Euphemia and Fleamont are nice enough, as are most of those who will be in attendance. It’s just their son and his friends that may drive you to insanity by the end of term,” Minerva informed her baldly.

Hermione was tempted to laugh, recalling some of the stories Sirius had entertained them with during her summer at Grimmauld Place, but the dark look on Minerva’s face was enough to put a stop to it. Instead, she offered what she hoped would be an easier topic of conversation as they headed to the castle. “Anything in particular I should know about Hogwarts and the students this year?”

The conversation went on smoothly after that, interrupted only by the occasional witch or wizard who greeted Minerva on the walk through Hogsmeade. Every now and again, the Transfiguration Mistress would point out certain establishments worth noting: the Hogs Head for Aberforth’s selection of Firewhiskey, the Three Broomsticks for good Butterbeer or mead, Zonko’s to know what to expect and confiscate over term…

Before she knew it, Hermione was faced once again with the view of the school she had often thought of as home.

Hogwarts castle was normally breath-taking in its splendour, even moreso now that it was not damaged by a war that had yet to occur on its grounds. It was almost as if she had had the chance to look at it whole for the first time, despite the wave of nostalgia and old memories that threatened to pervade her thoughts.

“It is wonderful, isn’t it, lass?” Minerva smiled at the expression on her face.

“Wonderful, indeed,” Hermione said softly.

~*~*~*~*~

Not so wonderful, however, was the chat she was having with the Board of Governors.

There were certainly moments in the past few years that found her cursing some of Albus Dumbledore’s convoluted manipulations; after all, it took a specific kind of bastard to groom a seventeen year old wizard to willingly walk to his death from beyond the grave. However, at the moment, Hermione found herself thankful that the aged Headmaster was on her side in this particular confrontation.

“Ah, Mister Malfoy, do you mean to tell me that you’ve found a more accomplished Professor to take up the Defence post this term?” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled as a flash of irritation crossed Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy’s face.

While Hermione was sure that Augusta Longbottom and Alphard Black were not quite as docile as the rest of the members of the Board, she couldn’t help but notice that the vast majority of them clearly deferred to the opinion of Abraxas, just as they would to his son in her time. As far as she could tell, however, Abraxas seemed almost more genteel than what she associated with Lucius. Perhaps because Abraxas, despite his associations, was clearly more wary of the Headmaster than his son had ever been.

“Not quite, Headmaster,” Abraxas responded in an eloquent drawl that was unnervingly reminiscent of Lucius’ manner of speaking. “The rest of the Board and I felt it necessary, however, to make sure that our interests were well represented. After all, it simply shan’t do to have anyone less than stellar in the position given the times.”

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore responded brightly. Hermione couldn’t help but look at him oddly; that tone had none of the biting undertone imbued in Abraxas’ poorly veiled threat. If it had been Lucius who had uttered something similar, she would have probably outdone Moody in her paranoia; accidents enabled agreeable replacements.

“I daresay Miss Burke is quite a wonderful find; it’s not just every day that you can find anyone who can singlehandedly cause so much chaos amongst the Unspeakables,” said Dumbledore.

“Indeed.”

And so it went.

Hermione didn’t think she could manage to duplicate the expression on the eldest Malfoy’s face even if she had a few lemons to stick in her mouth to help.

Eventually, when it was clear that Dumbledore was dismissing the Board for the afternoon, they slowly made their way out of his office. While Abraxas was among those who headed out quickly, Hermione was able to hold fairly amiable conversations with Alphard Black, Marc Greengrass, and Augusta Longbottom before they followed suit.

“And now that we’ve completed that little formality, I can officially welcome you to Hogwarts, Miss Burke,” Dumbledore beamed at her. “I may have neglected to mention it earlier, but the Potters are having a little dinner party to celebrate your appointment. I shall see you at ‘Potter Court’ around seven. There are many people who are eager to meet you, after all.”

“Seven it is, Headmaster,” Hermione said, silently making a note to thank Minerva again for her earlier warning.

“Albus is fine, my dear,” he said, eyes twinkling once more. “You shall make our lives much easier in the months to come, so I’m certain we can dispense with some of the more usual formalities.”

Nodding her head in acknowledgement, Hermione made her way out of his office and down the spiral staircase. Professor Dumbledore’s words continued to echo across her conscience long after she had left his office. It was mildly disconcerting, to say the least.

 _Disconcerting and then some, apparently,_ she thought, a little disgruntled that she was so preoccupied as to completely have forgotten Peeves’ existence.

“A new professor!”

Hermione couldn’t help but give a slightly startled jump as she caught a glimpse of the wretched poltergeist with his belled hat in hand. Her next reflex was to flick her wand out of its holster and in his direction to cast a containment charm.

The malicious glee on his face quickly gave way to a slightly more perplexed expression.

“Oh, professor, you tosser, what have you _done_?!” he shrieked, unable to move more than a few centimetres in any direction.

She managed to suppress the snort of laughter that threatened to bubble out of her. _He used to be so much better with his rhymes._

“Peeves, I am certain we can come to an arrangement where whatever is currently in that hat of yours shan’t end up on my head.”

If she was completely honest with herself, she was certain of no such thing. The poltergeist’s fear of the Bloody Baron and his wary respect of the Headmaster was about as far as her certainty stretched; Minerva and the twins had aided the poltergeist’s mischief at some point, so they hardly counted.

“Old Peevesy only brings good fun,” said the poltergeist without missing a beat.

Hermione couldn’t suppress the snort this time around.

~*~*~*~*~

_Hopefully Filch wouldn’t skin her alive before she got to Voldemort._

Teaching Peeves how to take control of the castle’s suits of armour may have bought her a reprieve from the poltergeist, but she was sure that the disagreeable caretaker would be after her hide just as soon as he realized that there were a few specific charms that were necessary to repelling Peeves out of them. With her luck of late, those consequences would haunt her sooner rather than later.

While Albus Dumbledore’s support was bound to make some parts of her life easier, appealing to the Headmaster of Hogwarts as opposed to her “fellow” Unspeakables had brought about a certain reluctance on their part to associate with her. Her attempts to return to _her_ timeline had been met with some stonewalling, and she was in the unfortunate position of having no leverage with _this_ Department of Mysteries.

The way Croaker had put it, she should be grateful that she had been given back her wand and cloak with a small sum of Galleons to compensate for the confiscation of her beaded bag.

It would have been a lot easier if her wand responded to her properly. To be fair, it wasn’t as if her vine wood wand hadn’t been a touch temperamental ever since she had regained it. There had definitely been moments over the past couple of years where _Bellatrix’s_ walnut wand had been more pliable. Her jump through time likely wouldn’t have helped matters any.

_I suppose a trip to Diagon Alley is in order. Bother._

As she continued to ruminate on some of the other things that she had suppressed over the past few days, she made her way through the Defence classroom, up the sweeping staircase, and found herself facing her office and a door that would lead her to the private quarters that Hogwarts had provided her.

The small drawing room was dominated by the relatively massive fireplace and unlit hearth. On the mantelpiece was a small pot filled to the brim with Floo powder. There was a small settee flanked by wingback chairs, all of which were crowded around a charming little coffee table near the hearth. On the other end of the room was a window overlooking the Quidditch pitch.

Hermione stared longingly at the familiar sight. As tired of the game as she had gotten of late, she couldn’t help but think of Ron and Harry and all the fun they’d had out on that pitch while she had cheered them on from the stands.

_They wouldn’t be friends this time around._

There had definitely been moments where she had been more a mothering figure than a friend, but now there was an age gap to that effect. It was disconcerting and disturbing, all rolled into the rest of the emotional turmoil that she couldn’t put into words.

It wasn’t like she had had many friends the first time around. She knew that her tendency to rely on books as a substitute for interaction hadn’t done her social life any favours early on. Before Harry and Ron, there had been too many magical accidents to make Muggle friends.

Frankly, if it hadn’t been for the troll and the subsequent misadventures, she doubted that she’d have ever had friends like Harry and Ron.

 _After… Well._ Her reputation as the brains of the Golden Trio had earned her respect, but she had generally been a little lacking in people she could count on as reliable friends. Neville, even when he continued to be unsure of himself. Luna, who tended to balance insight after disturbing insight with a heaping dose of eccentricity. George, when he wasn’t reliving the loss of his twin.

And Lucius.

By the time she had left _her_ timeline, he was far more than a passing acquaintance or just another Ministry asset. Their _relationship_ , as it were, was based on a combination of mutual desire and desperation. Lucius had understood the deep wounds that the war had left on her psyche, the wounds that refused to scab over and heal even years afterward. He understood her on a visceral level, even if she couldn’t always say the same.

 _There’s nothing you can do about them now,_ Hermione silently rebuked herself. She shook her head, trying to clear away some of the more futile thoughts.

There was a small corridor that led to a sparsely furnished bedroom. Sighing, she attempted to levitate the various pieces of furniture and Transfigure them into forms better aligned with her taste.

The four-poster bed flew across the room and expanded in a spot across the door as she moved the armoire in its former place right next to her.

For better or for worse, she was stuck in this time. She could not go back. Even if she was optimistic about her chances of getting the Unspeakables to help her, the timeline she would return to would likely be different than the one she remembered. Even the smallest changes could have rather large implications, and with the amount of contact she’d had here, she had already made plenty of small changes.

_Her friends and family as she knew them were gone._

Initially, when she had begun to dimly recognize the fact that Julian and Saul would have their work cut out for them if they were to try and retrieve her back to her original timeline, she had begun to plot out her contingencies.

She could plan well. That wouldn’t change not matter how many unexpected twists and turns Fate threw at her.

However, she couldn’t say that hadn’t been concerned about Albus Dumbledore’s thoughts on her situation. For days, she had been convinced that he would have been hell-bent on making sure that the future that had come to pass would do so with minimal interference on her part. Based on the past few days, it seemed much more like she had his direct support.

In hindsight, she shouldn’t have been so surprised that he trusted her more than the Unspeakables. After all, he had essentially encouraged the illegal use of a Time Turner to rescue a hippogriff and a convict in her third year.

Knowing that she would have the support of the Headmaster had made her feel slightly better and lighter, somehow. An impulse to change the future was all good and well, but her newest batch of plans were much more likely to come to successful fruition now that she wouldn’t have to work around the wizard who had defeated Grindelwald in his time.

When she peered into the armoire, she couldn’t help but smile at the few pairs of robes and other garments that had already been hung and folded inside. Owl-order was apparently just as efficient in this time as it was in hers.

Picking out a pair of light blue summer robes to wear to dinner, Hermione closed the armoire and made her way into the bathroom.

There was a small water closet off to the side, and a sink next to it, but what really caught her eye was the sunken tub in the middle of the floor surrounded by a few taps. It wasn’t quite as indulgent as the Prefect’s bathroom or the one in Lucius’ master suite, but it was definitely much more than she expected from a standard Professor’s quarters.

_Well, at least I have something to look forward to._

~*~*~*~*~

The ancestral Potter residence was easily as elegant as that of the Malfoys’ Wiltshire Manor, but where the latter was dark and imposing, the sight that greeted her was light and cheery. The surfaces of the cloak room and the corridor she had walked into seemed to be made of seamless white marble.

Before she reached the end of the corridor, she was greeted by a sprightly old witch dressed in impeccable lapis-coloured robes. “Mia” Potter, as she preferred to be called, was a polite yet exuberant hostess who managed to walk her from the Floo’s corridor to a charming little patio milling with fellow guests and refreshments while chattering her ear off as she made introductions.

“Monty” Potter was slightly more reserved than his wife, but he had an untamed head of silver hair and a kindly look about him that vaguely reminded her of Harry. The eldest Potter had once been the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but he had elected to give up the position in favour of spending more time with his family after his nephew and sister-in-law had passed.

Charlus Potter, a younger, sharper version of Monty, was avidly chatting with a much less wrinkled version of Elphias Doge; the latter was fiddling with a rather strange hat. Mia confessed that her brother-in-law generally preferred the solitude of his lab since Magnus and Dorea’s passing, but he was still a well-rounded conversationalist.

Sturgis Podmore was a familiar face, even though she hadn’t gotten a chance to know him very well before Dolohov had blown him to bits in her time. She vaguely recognized Caradoc Dearborn, Emmeline Vance, and the Fenwicks from a photo of the original Order of the Phoenix that Moody had shown her and Harry years ago.

Speaking of Moody, he had greeted her a touch gruffly, but she had long since written that off to his personality when surrounded by people. Minerva and Albus had greeted her warmly, and her “Aunt” had stepped in to continue making introductions when Mia had stepped away to oversee something in the kitchen.

Fabian and Gideon Prewett were charming, but once they were out of earshot, Minerva flatly told her that looks could be deceiving and shepherded her toward the group of people who had just arrived.

The McKinnons reminded her of the picture perfect families that had always been plastered in the adverts for photography studios. Bryan and Moira McKinnon had clearly retained most of their youthful looks; beyond a few extra laugh lines, there was nary a wrinkle or a grey hair in sight. Reagan was their eldest son, and he was a clear mix of both of his parents. Cassidy and Marlene favoured their father’s pale hair and features, but both still had something of their mother in them.

As Minerva continued to talk to Moira, Hermione tried to keep a polite smile on her face as she met more members of the original Order.

 _The original,_ dead _Order._

Thankfully, before she could go too far down _that_ rabbit hole, Mia had called everyone into a large dining room, also all made of the white marble that seemed to be everywhere within Potter Manor. The Potter matriarch had chosen to seat her next to the Prewett twins, which helped keep dinner a fairly entertaining affair.

Soon enough, the food had been cleared away—probably by a host of house-elves—leaving only the wine and the goblets. Monty took that as his cue to stand up and gather everyone’s attention.

“Good evening, all!”

The room fell silent, and if you ignored the moment where the Prewett twins tossed each other an amused smirk, all eyes were on the Potters and Dumbledore at the head of the table.

“Mia and I would like to thank you lot for coming, and I hope you’ve enjoyed this little gathering without the kids.”

Hermione glanced around the table and noticed that Marlene and the other Hogwarts-aged guests she had met were not at the table.

“Albus and Mia thought it best that we didn’t let my son and his friends have free reign at the dinner table. I’m sure everyone appreciates retaining their normal colouring for the evening,” Monty chortled.

“We could fix that, Monty!” Fabian and Gideon chimed in.

The glares Minerva and Mia sent their way in response might have killed anyone else, but Fabian and Gideon simply grinned.

“I’m sure you could, boys, but I think it would be best if my wife didn’t spend the rest of her years in Azkaban for putting an end to your antics,” Monty responded agreeably. Mia slowly turned her glare onto her husband.

“Well, then, I’ll just leave the rest of this little toast and meeting to you, Albus.” Monty finished.

Albus Dumbledore toasted her appointment quickly and started the motions of what she recognized as an Order meeting.

_‘Little dinner party’ her arse._

 ~*~*~*~*~

All in all, the rest of the evening could have gone considerably worse.

Hermione scoffed internally as she threw back another shot of Firewhiskey and gestured at the bartender for another.

_That wasn’t to say it couldn’t have gone a lot better._

The hot bath she had taken earlier had undoubtedly been the best part of her day. Hot water laced with jasmine-fragranced bubbles had done wonders for her mood. It was a pity that she hadn’t had a glass of elderberry wine or a book to help her along, but she was sure she could fix that once she had some time to build up a small collection again.

That semblance of an Order meeting had been more idle gossip than anything else.

Admittedly, Charlus Potter, the one time he had bothered to address the group, seemed to know a fair bit about intelligence gathering and which members of the Wizengamot would be likely to help them along or hinder any official goals that they might have.

“Our official _goal_ , Potter, is to maintain some autonomy from the Ministry,” Caradoc said before Charlus could get too far into his descriptions of the various Wizengamot members.

Before Charlus could do more than partially sneer in response, Albus stepped in to play mediator.

“Indeed, Caradoc, our little gatherings are best kept a secret from most individuals in the Ministry. However, Charlus is not amiss in pointing out that many in this room have the means to circumvent the rise of this self-styled Lord in other circles.”

“Trouble there?” Hermione asked Gideon quietly, as the Headmaster continued to talk amiably at the rest of the table.

“Something like that. Say what you like about old man Charlus, but he appreciates a good power play and seems to always comes out on top regardless of the circle. Dearborn isn’t the type of chap who can wrap his head around that type of thing, if you get my meaning,” Gideon answered.

“He’s a dimwit who’s more likely to be blown to bits before he’s actually useful,” Fabian whispered conspiratorially.

“Rather good target for a spot of fun, though,” Gideon continued.

“Thanks for clarifying that last bit,” said Hermione drily.

She refrained from asking the twins any further questions, lest they make any more morbid predictions. Given the reluctance of people at the table to actually _do_ anything, she was doing fine on the morbid prediction part by herself.

It was a pity screaming that only a handful of them would be alive out of the lot of them by the next decade would only make her seem like a madwoman.

As it was, her outburst of incredulity at Albus’ refusal to advise Minister Minchum to allocate more funds towards the Department of Magical Law Enforcement hadn’t been well received by the aging Headmaster or many of those at the table.

A few suggestions later, she had ascertained that at this point in time, not enough people were willing to manoeuvre to enable the Aurors to do their job or gather the intelligence that would enable them to mount their own attacks. Even fewer people at the table were willing to give Bartemius Crouch more power than he already had, even if it would likely help them survive the war, and while plenty of them were willing to train to fight, most didn’t have the mentality or ability to do so successfully.

Frustration she had yet to experience in this timeline threatened to bubble up again.

Minerva and Moira had given her a few vaguely approving glances throughout the evening, so at least she hadn’t alienated all of the older crowd. On a slightly more disconcerting note, Charlus’ examination of her turned speculative while she had spoken.

Unfortunately for her psyche, whatever conclusions Charlus had drawn from his speculation led to what was no doubt the most jarring experience of her day: an introduction to James Potter and Sirius Black.

James had looked so much like Harry that it was painful. The boy in front of her may not have had green eyes, but it was still almost like looking at one of her best friends. He was a very sharp reminder of everything that she was still coming to terms with losing.

Sirius had been absolutely charming, even if he had come across as slightly cocky. While he may or may not have had “womanizer” oozing from him in spades, the overall image was a far, far cry from the sullen, brooding shell of a man she remembered from her fifth year.

From there, Charlus had seen her back to the Floo, brushing his lips against her knuckles in the type of farewell she had come to expect from older Ministry officials in her time.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Burke. Please do let me know if you plan on challenging the Headmaster’s plans once more; I enjoy seeing the man surprised every once in a while,” said Charlus.

“Likewise, Mr. Potter. I’m sure if I can’t arrange for an invitation, you’ll be able to arrange for a Pensieve,” said Hermione, trying to keep her tone even.

After exchanging a few last pleasantries, Hermione Floo’d back into her quarters at Hogwarts. Before she had taken more than a few steps out of the Floo, she promptly turned back and grabbed another pinch of Floo powder and stepped out of the somewhat dingy fireplace of the Hog’s Head.

There was nothing quite like a guilt induced bender.

With the number of times she had thought of Harry and Ron and everyone else in _her_ timeline today alone, a mental-break induced bender might not be that far off.

It wasn’t until she was a good four or five shots in that she decided that it would be better to slow down and go with something a touch less potent. Mead it would be.

Unless of course she was cut off. Fortunately for her, it looked like Aberforth would be the one in charge of making that call and not the bartender who had just went off to the back.

“Aberforth?”

“Do I know you, lass?” He looked at her somewhat suspiciously. “You should probably make your way home soon—”

“I reckon I’ve managed to piss Abraxas Malfoy _and_ your brother off in the same evening. Another drink before I mosey on back over to the castle shan’t hurt me more than they will,” Hermione managed to rattle off without slurring her words.

There was a small pause as Aberforth looked at her as if he hadn’t seen anything quite like her before. When someone snickered above her head, he went ahead and poured a fairly generous serving of mead for her to sip at.

“And another mead for myself, as well. And do transfer the lady’s charges to my tab, if you would,” a baritone voice rumbled from above her head.

“That will not be necessary…” Hermione trailed off as she turned around to find herself staring up into strikingly familiar grey eyes.

~*~*~*~*~

**Author's Note:**

Hugs and drinks for my lovely beta, Colette Nin, for dealing with me and my tendency to tweak things repeatedly.

And to you lovely readers out there, I apologize for the gaps between chapters and thank you for kudos and feedback. :)


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